I have been a wreck all day. My puppy – a 10 month old Labradoodle, possibly the cutest dog ever and certainly one of the gentlest – was attacked by a pit bull this morning. Let me reassure you that he is okay, albeit with a large puncture wound on his snout. This is what happened. I was taking him to the groomer’s this morning. I had him on his leash beside my van and I had just lifted my three-year-old son out of his car seat. Barkley was sitting beside me, not barking, not doing anything. A pit bull, on a leash, pulling his 90 pound owner, ran at him and attacked his face. The owner could not call him off. I had to kick the dog in the head several times before he would let go of Barkley.
Now that was traumatizing enough. But the thought of my three-year-old, standing right beside me, and the thought of what could have happened if that pit bull had attacked him instead of the dog…well, I guess you can imagine how I must feel.
I know any dog can attack if provoked. I know any dog is protective of its owner. But what about unprovoked attacks? I know that many people say it is not the breed, it is the owner. However, this owner really seemed…well, nice and very apologetic. Apparently this dog had never been aggressive before. Even if that is true, which it may be, that is exactly the point. If a dog has never been aggressive before, and then suddenly shows aggression, then I’m not sure the owner is to blame. It feels like that is something that is in the dog, which cannot be taken out.
Thoughts?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Date Night
I’m going on a date tonight! I’m very excited; we do not go out for dinner very often and we never go out with the children. This is a fun fact that surprises some people – “you don’t take the kids to restaurants?”. Um, no. The thought of paying for meals that would most likely be left uneaten while I experience extreme tension from the perception that my children are being disruptive is not a happy thought. But anyway, dinner tonight! My parents, with one exception, always have given us a fancy restaurant gift certificate for our anniversary, babysitting included. The one exception was the year Jake was a baby. This story is embarrassing to my mother, but hey, it’s kind of funny. You see, Jake was what you might call an “evil baby”, and I say this with affection because he was an absolute joy as a toddler and now as a preschooler. But as a baby, he was colicky, and then when he was past the age for being colicky, he was just plain surly. He was the type of baby who would scream inconsolably if I say, left the room for thirty seconds. Half the time he would also scream inconsolably while I was holding him. (“Shouldn’t you pick him up or something?” my mother asked on the phone, over the din of the screaming. I was wearing him in the Baby Bjorn.) So, the year that he was a baby, instead of a dinner out we received two serving bowls for our anniversary! Lovely serving bowls they are indeed.
I had a friend who swore by weekly date nights. Every Saturday he and his wife would arrange for a sitter for their three children, and go for dinner and a movie. To me, the logistics for this scheme would be overwhelming, and usually I would rather hang out at home, with a nice glass of wine. But whatever works, right? Here is my personal recipe for a happy marriage:
1) Whether it is a regular date night, or just hanging out at home with a glass (or bottle) of wine, make time for just the two of you.
2) Cultivate your own interests, but if you find that you are always doing things apart, cultivate an interest together.
3) Statistically most fights are caused by finances and children. So, if you work through that, the rest will follow.
4) Listen to your spouse, and don’t take him (or her) for granted.
Simple, no? Although, I’m pretty sure if I asked my husband about his personal happy marriage recipe, it would sound something like this:
1) Keep wine rack full for crazy emotional wife.
2) Encourage daily yoga practice or wife becomes very cranky.
3) With a few exceptions, defer to wife for day-to-day decisions with the children, even when you know those decisions may not turn out well (example: “Sure, I think clay class sounds like a GREAT idea”.)
4) Do not watch golf when wife is talking about yoga.
Wow, it’s a joy to be married to me! What a lucky, lucky guy is my husband!
Anyone want to share their happy marriage hints?
I had a friend who swore by weekly date nights. Every Saturday he and his wife would arrange for a sitter for their three children, and go for dinner and a movie. To me, the logistics for this scheme would be overwhelming, and usually I would rather hang out at home, with a nice glass of wine. But whatever works, right? Here is my personal recipe for a happy marriage:
1) Whether it is a regular date night, or just hanging out at home with a glass (or bottle) of wine, make time for just the two of you.
2) Cultivate your own interests, but if you find that you are always doing things apart, cultivate an interest together.
3) Statistically most fights are caused by finances and children. So, if you work through that, the rest will follow.
4) Listen to your spouse, and don’t take him (or her) for granted.
Simple, no? Although, I’m pretty sure if I asked my husband about his personal happy marriage recipe, it would sound something like this:
1) Keep wine rack full for crazy emotional wife.
2) Encourage daily yoga practice or wife becomes very cranky.
3) With a few exceptions, defer to wife for day-to-day decisions with the children, even when you know those decisions may not turn out well (example: “Sure, I think clay class sounds like a GREAT idea”.)
4) Do not watch golf when wife is talking about yoga.
Wow, it’s a joy to be married to me! What a lucky, lucky guy is my husband!
Anyone want to share their happy marriage hints?
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Out-Laws
A former boss of mine with a HILARIOUS sense of humour used to refer to my (and everyone else’s) in-laws as “the out-laws”. He also used to use the oft-used-at-that-time-in-business-circles phrase “open the kimono” which just gave me a mental image of him that makes me shudder just writing that. I actually had to stop typing for a minute to shudder. Anyway. The in-laws are visiting this week, which is fine: I get along with them just fine and they dote on the boys, who are their only grandchildren.
But despite the above, I always get a little anxious before their arrival getting things ready and it is ALL FOR NAUGHT. These people are incredibly laid-back about planning their visits. They don’t stay with us, they stay in a hotel, so they come over for a visit…whenever. They will go out to eat dinner by themselves or they will come over…whatever I want. This level of easy-going-ness is what makes me anxious.
You see, I come from a very large extended family who are (and I say this lovingly) a little crazy and very family-oriented, and there is always, always, some sort of feud going on between some members of the family. Someone is always not talking to someone else because of a real or imagined slight, or some kind of offense is taken, or someone doesn’t like someone’s spouse. You get the picture. Despite this, like I said the family is very clan-oriented and there are a few unspoken rules: a) if you visit, you stay at someone’s house, and b) you spend as much time as possible with the person you are visiting.
So you can see why my in-laws’ good intentions make me anxious. They like not staying with us, and truth be told, I like it too. They like eating some meals in restaurants, and hey, I don’t mind. But still, I have this constant feeling like I should be doing more, cooking more, making them at home in our (teeny tiny) spare room, just the way it was when I was growing up. This is why I think so many people have problems with their in-law relationship – it’s the melding of two different family structures and two different levels of expectation.
What do you think? Do you think most in-law issues could be solved just by accepting the fact that your spouse’s family does things differently?
But despite the above, I always get a little anxious before their arrival getting things ready and it is ALL FOR NAUGHT. These people are incredibly laid-back about planning their visits. They don’t stay with us, they stay in a hotel, so they come over for a visit…whenever. They will go out to eat dinner by themselves or they will come over…whatever I want. This level of easy-going-ness is what makes me anxious.
You see, I come from a very large extended family who are (and I say this lovingly) a little crazy and very family-oriented, and there is always, always, some sort of feud going on between some members of the family. Someone is always not talking to someone else because of a real or imagined slight, or some kind of offense is taken, or someone doesn’t like someone’s spouse. You get the picture. Despite this, like I said the family is very clan-oriented and there are a few unspoken rules: a) if you visit, you stay at someone’s house, and b) you spend as much time as possible with the person you are visiting.
So you can see why my in-laws’ good intentions make me anxious. They like not staying with us, and truth be told, I like it too. They like eating some meals in restaurants, and hey, I don’t mind. But still, I have this constant feeling like I should be doing more, cooking more, making them at home in our (teeny tiny) spare room, just the way it was when I was growing up. This is why I think so many people have problems with their in-law relationship – it’s the melding of two different family structures and two different levels of expectation.
What do you think? Do you think most in-law issues could be solved just by accepting the fact that your spouse’s family does things differently?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
A game I should be disturbed by...
"I need a spoon!" Jake said brightly this morning, retrieving a old plastic baby one from the drawer. "What do you need a spoon for, honey?" I asked. "It's my dolly!" he replied. I smiled and continued on with the dishes.
A few minutes later, I looked up to see him, a toy monster truck in hand, driving over the spoon. "Take that, dolly!"
A few minutes later, I looked up to see him, a toy monster truck in hand, driving over the spoon. "Take that, dolly!"
Monday, March 23, 2009
March 23
I remember my pregnancy with Mark so well. I walked around in a constant state of ecstasy mixed with anxiety – I was so happy to be pregnant, but also so worried that something was going to go wrong or that I would do something wrong. That feeling was not helped out by the many scary pregnancy books on the market, all of which I read. If I could have had one of those Doppler heartbeat monitors hooked up to me all the time, I probably would have. I was so happy to feel his first movements, and I was happy he was such an active little fetus. I remember he was especially active when a heavy metal or hard rock song came on the radio, and funnily enough, those are the musical genres he prefers to this day. “I love Welcome to the Jungle!” he informed the kindly and startled children’s minister at our church when asked about his favourite song.
Mostly, though, I just felt joyful, and expectant, and thrilled. And hungry. I ate enormous amounts of food, and constantly craved hamburgers. After an astounding weight gain, a pre-eclampsia diagnosis, and a subsequent three-week bedrest (after I had already finished work and started my official maternity leave) I waddled into my doctor’s office on March 23. She poked me in the puffy cheek in an illustrative way, and informed me and her young intern that I was going to be induced, TODAY. And that is how I ended up spending my second wedding anniversary in the delivery room.
I was only in labour for four hours, screaming such hilariously obvious things like “THIS REALLY HURTS!”. “I THINK I NEED THE DRUGS” I shrieked to Shannon, my young and sweet delivery nurse, who replied that I was nine and a half centimeters, and there was no way they were going to administer drugs at that point. Oh.
At 11:55, Mark was born, trumping our anniversary and forever changing my life, starting me on the long road that is motherhood. That was five years ago, and I can’t imagine life without him, my brave, sensitive, vehicle-obsessed, stubborn, happy, and funny little man.
Mostly, though, I just felt joyful, and expectant, and thrilled. And hungry. I ate enormous amounts of food, and constantly craved hamburgers. After an astounding weight gain, a pre-eclampsia diagnosis, and a subsequent three-week bedrest (after I had already finished work and started my official maternity leave) I waddled into my doctor’s office on March 23. She poked me in the puffy cheek in an illustrative way, and informed me and her young intern that I was going to be induced, TODAY. And that is how I ended up spending my second wedding anniversary in the delivery room.
I was only in labour for four hours, screaming such hilariously obvious things like “THIS REALLY HURTS!”. “I THINK I NEED THE DRUGS” I shrieked to Shannon, my young and sweet delivery nurse, who replied that I was nine and a half centimeters, and there was no way they were going to administer drugs at that point. Oh.
At 11:55, Mark was born, trumping our anniversary and forever changing my life, starting me on the long road that is motherhood. That was five years ago, and I can’t imagine life without him, my brave, sensitive, vehicle-obsessed, stubborn, happy, and funny little man.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
March is not actually a spring month
The past few days have been just lovely around here. Snow has been melting and the sun has been shining. "Spring has sprung!" was the ill-informed chorus on the street. I was walking the dog yesterday through a brisk, cold wind that was surely an indicator that the weather was changing. I spotted many joggers of that particular breed of Calgarian who disregard all thermometers and wind chill factors in favour of sunny and clear skies, and as a result are in shorts, their bare legs purple with the cold. And, sure enough, I woke up this morning to a foot of heavy wet snow. It's still snowing.
MARCH IS NOT SPRING. At least, March in Calgary is not spring. Nearly every year, the poor misinformed spring bulbs will make their appearance in March only to be destroyed by heavy, wet snow. Sadly, this year has been too cold for those bulbs to pop up. But, spring is coming, despite all evidence to the contrary.
MARCH IS NOT SPRING. At least, March in Calgary is not spring. Nearly every year, the poor misinformed spring bulbs will make their appearance in March only to be destroyed by heavy, wet snow. Sadly, this year has been too cold for those bulbs to pop up. But, spring is coming, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
My Nemesis, The Clay Class
Today marks the end of the family clay class that I have been taking the boys to, every Thursday for the past nine weeks. I breathed a sigh of relief as we walked back to the van, clay turtles and volcanic islands in hand. You see, I hated clay class. I dreaded it every week. The boys, on the other hand, loved it, and so I kept my feelings to myself.
I was the only mom there with two children to deal with. I would look around and the other moms would be focusing their attention on their child and their clay sculpture, which would inevitably look like what it was supposed to look like. Suns would look like suns, complete with rays and smiling faces. Then I would look down at my little hyenas, one of whom would be adding a fifth eye to his sun, the other sculpting a sock to stick to his sun’s face. I would look at the other moms, painting and glazing with appropriate colours and detailing, and then I would look at my children, who had apparently ingested a hallucinogen of some sort, painting their sculptures in a strange and alarming array of colour. The entire class I would be crazily busy keeping up with them, helping them in their bizarre art, and not giving either of them very focused attention. On bad days, it sort of felt like a metaphor for my life.
I never for a moment have regretted having my children so close together. They are true playmates who share so many similar interests. However, I do feel that most days it is just impossible to give solid, focused attention on just one child at a time. I once read a parenting article that advocated spending thirty minutes per day giving one-on-one time to each child. I remember after reading that wondering how anyone could actually feasibly do that. Maybe by locking one child in his room for half an hour, so I could do a craft with the other? Hmm. That just doesn’t seem right.
Most days, I feel that the constant existence of a playmate in the form of a sibling more than compensates for the lack of one-on-one attention from me. And so even though the session is over, I will have many haphazard, colourful, crazy pieces of art to remind me of this time, when it was the three of us, together in our clay class.
I was the only mom there with two children to deal with. I would look around and the other moms would be focusing their attention on their child and their clay sculpture, which would inevitably look like what it was supposed to look like. Suns would look like suns, complete with rays and smiling faces. Then I would look down at my little hyenas, one of whom would be adding a fifth eye to his sun, the other sculpting a sock to stick to his sun’s face. I would look at the other moms, painting and glazing with appropriate colours and detailing, and then I would look at my children, who had apparently ingested a hallucinogen of some sort, painting their sculptures in a strange and alarming array of colour. The entire class I would be crazily busy keeping up with them, helping them in their bizarre art, and not giving either of them very focused attention. On bad days, it sort of felt like a metaphor for my life.
I never for a moment have regretted having my children so close together. They are true playmates who share so many similar interests. However, I do feel that most days it is just impossible to give solid, focused attention on just one child at a time. I once read a parenting article that advocated spending thirty minutes per day giving one-on-one time to each child. I remember after reading that wondering how anyone could actually feasibly do that. Maybe by locking one child in his room for half an hour, so I could do a craft with the other? Hmm. That just doesn’t seem right.
Most days, I feel that the constant existence of a playmate in the form of a sibling more than compensates for the lack of one-on-one attention from me. And so even though the session is over, I will have many haphazard, colourful, crazy pieces of art to remind me of this time, when it was the three of us, together in our clay class.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Party Week
With all my romantic mushiness leading up to my seven year itch, I neglected to report on the status of the superhero party. I had a few misgivings the night before the party – I was a little concerned since we had a few, how shall I put this, different personality types attending – but it was a great success. There were no tears, all the kids were excited about the games, the crafts were a hit, and there were no birthday boy meltdowns! So all was grand. The secret to success for a boy’s party seems to be physical activity. Keep the kids running or dancing around, and everyone is happy. My husband set up an obstacle course in our basement which kept six boys under the age of five happy for thirty minutes, which I think must be some kind of record.
The only thing left to do now is enter into a cupcake making frenzy. The March birthday celebration at the preschool is on Friday, and we are having a family party on Sunday. Mark’s actual birthday is not until Monday, at which time I think we will be all birthday-ed out.
How many birthday celebrations are too many? I overheard one of the boys’ friends saying “Mark’s bringing cupcakes on Friday! It’s his birthday again! I guess he is going to be six!” With that logic, I suppose he will be eight by Monday. Talk about growing up fast!
The only thing left to do now is enter into a cupcake making frenzy. The March birthday celebration at the preschool is on Friday, and we are having a family party on Sunday. Mark’s actual birthday is not until Monday, at which time I think we will be all birthday-ed out.
How many birthday celebrations are too many? I overheard one of the boys’ friends saying “Mark’s bringing cupcakes on Friday! It’s his birthday again! I guess he is going to be six!” With that logic, I suppose he will be eight by Monday. Talk about growing up fast!
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Seven Year Itch
In one week, Rob and I will have been married for seven years. For weeks I’ve been joking about getting the seven year itch. “Uh oh,” I’ll say, “I’m getting itchy!” and he will smile at me indulgently. That smile, that indulgence, is one of the many reasons I love him so much. He is indulgent and patient when it comes to me: my moods, my occasional crying jags, my wine consumption. He brings me Gerber daisies and listens to my stories, he buys me wine and rubs my back. He is a very good husband.
We have been parents for five out of the seven years that we have been married; in fact, our first child was born on our second anniversary (although I do not actually recommend the delivery room as a romantic anniversary destination). When Mark was a baby, and I would get together with my new mom’s group, conversations would always start out about nursing, and diapers, and our lack of sleep, and then they would morph into discussions about our husbands. “He was complaining about being TIRED,” someone would say, and we would all nod our heads in agreement, since moms have the market cornered on tiredness. “He went for a beer after work!” someone else would say and we would commiserate and talk about how we had to make dinner one-handed, with a baby on one hip. We were exhausted, hormone-deranged, overwhelmed with our new motherly responsibilities, and a little resentful that our husbands’ lives had not changed so entirely and absolutely, as ours had. Looking back, I can see that our husbands’ lives did change in just as substantial a way, even though they were still heading out to work in the morning instead of facing a day in the house with a newborn and a mountain of laundry.
Having a baby can put an enormous strain on a relationship, but it is also such a blessing. When I first met Rob, almost thirteen years ago, I would smile when I saw him, so ruggedly handsome in his CAT boots and jeans and fleece vest from Mountain Equipment Co-Op, with his longish hair on his forehead. Now he comes home from work, still ruggedly handsome, but in a suit and with much shorter, greyer hair. And I smile, and marvel at my fortune.
We have been parents for five out of the seven years that we have been married; in fact, our first child was born on our second anniversary (although I do not actually recommend the delivery room as a romantic anniversary destination). When Mark was a baby, and I would get together with my new mom’s group, conversations would always start out about nursing, and diapers, and our lack of sleep, and then they would morph into discussions about our husbands. “He was complaining about being TIRED,” someone would say, and we would all nod our heads in agreement, since moms have the market cornered on tiredness. “He went for a beer after work!” someone else would say and we would commiserate and talk about how we had to make dinner one-handed, with a baby on one hip. We were exhausted, hormone-deranged, overwhelmed with our new motherly responsibilities, and a little resentful that our husbands’ lives had not changed so entirely and absolutely, as ours had. Looking back, I can see that our husbands’ lives did change in just as substantial a way, even though they were still heading out to work in the morning instead of facing a day in the house with a newborn and a mountain of laundry.
Having a baby can put an enormous strain on a relationship, but it is also such a blessing. When I first met Rob, almost thirteen years ago, I would smile when I saw him, so ruggedly handsome in his CAT boots and jeans and fleece vest from Mountain Equipment Co-Op, with his longish hair on his forehead. Now he comes home from work, still ruggedly handsome, but in a suit and with much shorter, greyer hair. And I smile, and marvel at my fortune.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Update!
What, did I leave you hanging? I’m happy to report that Mark is 100% healthy and Jake is approaching that point. Mark had one of those illnesses I always hope for when the kids are sick, in that he was feverish, non-eating and sloth-like for one day, and completely well again the next day. I love when that happens! I mean, I don’t love the sick part, but it’s great when the recovery is quick and not like our Christmastime let’s-be-sick-and-have-it-drag-out-for-weeks fiasco. Jake was slightly slower to recover but it seems like they will be able to attend preschool tomorrow afternoon THANK YOU LORD. Because I don’t know about your children, but mine are kind of horrible to be around once they have passed the lying-around stage and are in the getting-our-energy-back-but-have-cabin-fever-and-must-shriek-and-whine-all-day stage. So I’m looking forward to tomorrow.
I’m really happy to be over it though, because as I mentioned, I have a birthday party to throw on Saturday! It’s Mark’s fifth, although his actual birthday isn’t for another week. This is the first party where he was really particular about his guest list (“I only want to invite boys. Except you, Mom”.) My lovely, dearest friend is the queen of party planning; her daughters’ parties always have themes, and often destinations, and appropriate activities, whereas I am decidedly NOT the queen of party planning, if you know what I’m saying. But – and who knew! – the internet is just full of party ideas! So we are having a superhero themed party, complete with the afore-mentioned “decorate your own bat” craft, “Mr. Freeze Dance”, and a superhero obstacle course. Also, my mother sewed little capes with each child’s initial on it for a party favour. Let me tell you, it is handy to have a mother who likes to sew and who also likes to do things for her grandchildren. Props to Grandma. This is especially nice since my lovely, dearest friend can tell you I am no seamstress, as well as no party planner. We met in ninth grade and sat next to each other in Home Ec (do they still have Home Ec?) and chatted while she sewed her actually-wearable t-shirt and I ripped out stitches over and over until my t-shirt was a shred of material with holes in it. Also I am completely unable to sew on buttons. I digress.
Thanks for all the finger-crossing, it looks like we will make it until Saturday! That is, unless I commit myself to the asylum from all the shrieking and whining around here. Cross your fingers that won’t happen!
I’m really happy to be over it though, because as I mentioned, I have a birthday party to throw on Saturday! It’s Mark’s fifth, although his actual birthday isn’t for another week. This is the first party where he was really particular about his guest list (“I only want to invite boys. Except you, Mom”.) My lovely, dearest friend is the queen of party planning; her daughters’ parties always have themes, and often destinations, and appropriate activities, whereas I am decidedly NOT the queen of party planning, if you know what I’m saying. But – and who knew! – the internet is just full of party ideas! So we are having a superhero themed party, complete with the afore-mentioned “decorate your own bat” craft, “Mr. Freeze Dance”, and a superhero obstacle course. Also, my mother sewed little capes with each child’s initial on it for a party favour. Let me tell you, it is handy to have a mother who likes to sew and who also likes to do things for her grandchildren. Props to Grandma. This is especially nice since my lovely, dearest friend can tell you I am no seamstress, as well as no party planner. We met in ninth grade and sat next to each other in Home Ec (do they still have Home Ec?) and chatted while she sewed her actually-wearable t-shirt and I ripped out stitches over and over until my t-shirt was a shred of material with holes in it. Also I am completely unable to sew on buttons. I digress.
Thanks for all the finger-crossing, it looks like we will make it until Saturday! That is, unless I commit myself to the asylum from all the shrieking and whining around here. Cross your fingers that won’t happen!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I'm BOOORRRRREEEEEDDDD
Did you know that there is a huge upside to minus twenty temperatures? If you have two sick kids, and they don’t want to drink the amount of liquids that they should be drinking, you can rummage around in the basement to find the box of Freezies left over from the summer, put them outside, and within the hour they will be frozen! Freezies! In the winter! The novelty alone caused the boys to consume many, many of the frozen treats, which caused a mid-afternoon attitude rally. I call THAT a small, sick day miracle.
Oh Lord, I’m bored. I am almost writing a song about being bored. The boys are the kind of sick where they don’t feel like doing anything – stories, crafts, etc. – but watching TV. So, being the great mom that I am, the TV has been on almost all day. Mark summed it up by saying “I don’t want to watch this show. But I’m going to watch it.”
So I’ve been spending the day baking awesome peanut butter cookies, opening Freezies, and tracing and cutting out outlines of bats, the template for which was very kindly made by my younger brother, since my own artistic rendering of a bat looks more like a circle with two lopsided triangles attached to it. And why would I be spending hours cutting out construction paper bats, you might ask? It’s for Mark’s birthday party on Saturday, of course! Because getting sick for your birthday is the COOLEST. Cross your fingers we are all better by then. Mine will be.
Oh Lord, I’m bored. I am almost writing a song about being bored. The boys are the kind of sick where they don’t feel like doing anything – stories, crafts, etc. – but watching TV. So, being the great mom that I am, the TV has been on almost all day. Mark summed it up by saying “I don’t want to watch this show. But I’m going to watch it.”
So I’ve been spending the day baking awesome peanut butter cookies, opening Freezies, and tracing and cutting out outlines of bats, the template for which was very kindly made by my younger brother, since my own artistic rendering of a bat looks more like a circle with two lopsided triangles attached to it. And why would I be spending hours cutting out construction paper bats, you might ask? It’s for Mark’s birthday party on Saturday, of course! Because getting sick for your birthday is the COOLEST. Cross your fingers we are all better by then. Mine will be.
Monday, March 9, 2009
I Heart Yoga
Almost two years ago, when Mark was three and Jake was almost two, I wasn’t in the best of shape. I was thin, but not happy thin. I was tired all the time, my legs with their myriad swollen varicose veins were constantly aching, and at one point I missed my period for two months (and I wasn’t pregnant). If I ever went out without the children it would be after their bedtime, and then only for short periods of time. I was a bit of a wreck. I cried a lot.
My ever-supportive husband was after me to do something for myself, something, anything, but he was working very long hours at the time so I was limited as to what I could do. I could not stand the idea of exercising at a gym with the kids in the filthy, germ-infested child care room, but I did think I had to start doing some sort of physical activity. I decided to attend an Ashtanga yoga class at a studio near my home, once a week. Now, almost two years later, I practice yoga every weekday morning at 5:30.
The usual reaction to that fact is “5:30? Are you crazy?” but I find the early mornings are beautiful, it isn’t difficult to get up anymore, and if I miss a practice I really regret it later in the day. That time to myself is like a little gift every morning.
Last week when my husband was out of town, we all had little colds, and I missed three practices. The kids were clingy, I was impatient, and I kind of felt like the type of person who complains all the time. Like, anytime I spoke with anyone, I felt like I was just constantly complaining - the weather, the colds, the absent husband. But then this weekend was a yoga workshop that I had been planning to attend for a couple of months. I was slightly worried about leaving the kids for SO LONG (Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday for the majority of the day). I worried about their meals, their activities, and of course, it was all for nothing – they had a great time with their dad.
The thing is, after having a bad week, and then practically an entire weekend to myself, practicing yoga, I feel like an entirely different person. And what I really wanted to say in this post is that in order to be a good mom, sometimes you need to be away from the kids – not necessarily to do yoga, but to do something that you love. All of those new-baby books remind you not to forget to take care of yourself, and it’s so true. Even if it’s only an hour a week, you really need to take some time for just yourself. It will make you a better mother and a happier person.
My ever-supportive husband was after me to do something for myself, something, anything, but he was working very long hours at the time so I was limited as to what I could do. I could not stand the idea of exercising at a gym with the kids in the filthy, germ-infested child care room, but I did think I had to start doing some sort of physical activity. I decided to attend an Ashtanga yoga class at a studio near my home, once a week. Now, almost two years later, I practice yoga every weekday morning at 5:30.
The usual reaction to that fact is “5:30? Are you crazy?” but I find the early mornings are beautiful, it isn’t difficult to get up anymore, and if I miss a practice I really regret it later in the day. That time to myself is like a little gift every morning.
Last week when my husband was out of town, we all had little colds, and I missed three practices. The kids were clingy, I was impatient, and I kind of felt like the type of person who complains all the time. Like, anytime I spoke with anyone, I felt like I was just constantly complaining - the weather, the colds, the absent husband. But then this weekend was a yoga workshop that I had been planning to attend for a couple of months. I was slightly worried about leaving the kids for SO LONG (Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday for the majority of the day). I worried about their meals, their activities, and of course, it was all for nothing – they had a great time with their dad.
The thing is, after having a bad week, and then practically an entire weekend to myself, practicing yoga, I feel like an entirely different person. And what I really wanted to say in this post is that in order to be a good mom, sometimes you need to be away from the kids – not necessarily to do yoga, but to do something that you love. All of those new-baby books remind you not to forget to take care of yourself, and it’s so true. Even if it’s only an hour a week, you really need to take some time for just yourself. It will make you a better mother and a happier person.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Mom Style
Hee hee. That title alone makes me laugh. Is there a less sexualized word than “mom”? Mom jeans. Mom hair. It conjures up an image that is not exactly…attractive. There are “yummy mummies” and “hot mamas”, but “moms”? Not sexy. “Soccer moms” might get the worst of it in terms of image, and I am actually becoming one this year! I guess I will have to find myself a neon windbreaker tracksuit, since I already have a minivan.
Sometimes it’s hard for a stay at home mom to have some good fashion mojo, if you know what I mean. It’s a slippery slope in the fashion department, and this is coming from a woman whose style, nine months out of the year, is characterized by jeans (but low-rise, NEVER mom jeans) and a t-shirt layered underneath a v-neck sweater, in a veritable rainbow of blacks, grays, and browns. Yesterday I received a “fashion magazine” which is put out by The Bay (I don’t know why or how I receive these magazines, but I have for years). Since my wardrobe is as described above, I generally peruse these magazines for style ideas, which remain largely theoretical as I dislike shopping (which is a good prerequisite to being a mother of boys), and whenever I do shop I end up picking up something black, gray, or brown.
Nonetheless, I opened the magazine, and I quote, “Mindful of our mandate to identify the looks that will work effortlessly into your life, we interpret and communicate the major trends”. The magazine then goes on list such lovely ideas as “sensuous…kaftan tunics” and “graphic big-cat animalia prints”. Seriously? Big-cat animalia prints? My grandma looks awesome in those, as well as kaftan tunics; she is a beautiful woman but she is also in her eighties. So I think I’ll pass. There is also a spread on floral-print dresses and cardigans, and while they look sort of cute on the nineteen year old model, I kind of think that I would look frumpy and idiotic in them (again, this is theoretical since I haven’t worn a dress or skirt in several years). Then there is the pair of go-anywhere ubiquitous white pants. With two boys and a dog? Unless I want to cultivate the slovenly, Pigpen-from-Charlie-Brown look, I think I’ll forgo the white pants.
It’s really hard to find clothes that are appropriate and comfortable, but are not from Tan Jay or similar. It seems like once you hit your thirties, unless you are going to a job where you wear nice clothes every day, you are left out of the market. Is anyone else having these struggles? Or is it just me and my monochromatic wardrobe?
Sometimes it’s hard for a stay at home mom to have some good fashion mojo, if you know what I mean. It’s a slippery slope in the fashion department, and this is coming from a woman whose style, nine months out of the year, is characterized by jeans (but low-rise, NEVER mom jeans) and a t-shirt layered underneath a v-neck sweater, in a veritable rainbow of blacks, grays, and browns. Yesterday I received a “fashion magazine” which is put out by The Bay (I don’t know why or how I receive these magazines, but I have for years). Since my wardrobe is as described above, I generally peruse these magazines for style ideas, which remain largely theoretical as I dislike shopping (which is a good prerequisite to being a mother of boys), and whenever I do shop I end up picking up something black, gray, or brown.
Nonetheless, I opened the magazine, and I quote, “Mindful of our mandate to identify the looks that will work effortlessly into your life, we interpret and communicate the major trends”. The magazine then goes on list such lovely ideas as “sensuous…kaftan tunics” and “graphic big-cat animalia prints”. Seriously? Big-cat animalia prints? My grandma looks awesome in those, as well as kaftan tunics; she is a beautiful woman but she is also in her eighties. So I think I’ll pass. There is also a spread on floral-print dresses and cardigans, and while they look sort of cute on the nineteen year old model, I kind of think that I would look frumpy and idiotic in them (again, this is theoretical since I haven’t worn a dress or skirt in several years). Then there is the pair of go-anywhere ubiquitous white pants. With two boys and a dog? Unless I want to cultivate the slovenly, Pigpen-from-Charlie-Brown look, I think I’ll forgo the white pants.
It’s really hard to find clothes that are appropriate and comfortable, but are not from Tan Jay or similar. It seems like once you hit your thirties, unless you are going to a job where you wear nice clothes every day, you are left out of the market. Is anyone else having these struggles? Or is it just me and my monochromatic wardrobe?
Monday, March 2, 2009
February's Over, Yay!
There’s something about February, despite the shortness of the month, which makes it feel really long. Maybe it’s the arctic climate that does it, and the fact that it is still a really long time until spring. But nonetheless, here we are, in March!
The weekend wasn’t much fun because I’m husbandless for the majority of the week, and as experience has indicated, the anticipation is worse than the reality. In other words, everyone was out of sorts all weekend long. The boys were super-sensitive and weepy, and I was feeling sour, not the least because my dear husband chose Saturday to tell me about the company golf tournament in Jasper for a weekend in June. Honey! Let me get through the week’s absence before we talk about you leaving again! And for a golf tournament no less. Anyway.
But he’s gone now and the boys and I are settled into our usual routine. I know that there is a parenting sect that disapproves of routines and schedules, but I am all for it. Nothing is quite as comforting to me and the kids as our routine, mundane though it might be. Since today is Monday, our routine includes – hold onto your hats! – Cleaning the Entire House. I know what you’re thinking: what a crazy life she lives, and how do I get that kind of life? Truly though, I don’t find cleaning that oppressive. A not-insignificant number of my friends have a “cleaning lady” but that is something I just wouldn’t spend money on. (A personal chef? Now THAT is my dream. I would spend a lot of money on that. Alas.) For one thing, my house just isn’t that big. More importantly, the boys love to help with various household chores, and I think it is particularly vital for boys to develop the necessary life skill of Cleaning the House. I think it’s important that they learn hey, washing the floor and cleaning the bathroom is a good and necessary thing, and one that doesn’t just happen on its own. Also it’s cute to see them, so intent with their Swiffer dusters and the vacuum, busy as bees, focused on Cleaning the House, because it's Monday.
The weekend wasn’t much fun because I’m husbandless for the majority of the week, and as experience has indicated, the anticipation is worse than the reality. In other words, everyone was out of sorts all weekend long. The boys were super-sensitive and weepy, and I was feeling sour, not the least because my dear husband chose Saturday to tell me about the company golf tournament in Jasper for a weekend in June. Honey! Let me get through the week’s absence before we talk about you leaving again! And for a golf tournament no less. Anyway.
But he’s gone now and the boys and I are settled into our usual routine. I know that there is a parenting sect that disapproves of routines and schedules, but I am all for it. Nothing is quite as comforting to me and the kids as our routine, mundane though it might be. Since today is Monday, our routine includes – hold onto your hats! – Cleaning the Entire House. I know what you’re thinking: what a crazy life she lives, and how do I get that kind of life? Truly though, I don’t find cleaning that oppressive. A not-insignificant number of my friends have a “cleaning lady” but that is something I just wouldn’t spend money on. (A personal chef? Now THAT is my dream. I would spend a lot of money on that. Alas.) For one thing, my house just isn’t that big. More importantly, the boys love to help with various household chores, and I think it is particularly vital for boys to develop the necessary life skill of Cleaning the House. I think it’s important that they learn hey, washing the floor and cleaning the bathroom is a good and necessary thing, and one that doesn’t just happen on its own. Also it’s cute to see them, so intent with their Swiffer dusters and the vacuum, busy as bees, focused on Cleaning the House, because it's Monday.
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